Don't Stand so Close to Me
by nasoscinnel
Summary: Arthur Kirkland had never, never, wanted to feel what he felt as he had looked into the eyes of that new student. Lust. For a boy of fourteen. UKUS
1. Young Teacher

_This is rated M because I only want mature readers here. It's not because there's sex, because there isn't. Well…nothing particularly _explicit_, anyway. So don't come here expecting to get your porn fix. And don't expect this to end the way you want it to. This is the only warning I will give you. Though I will also warn you that I sometimes get kind of verbose._

* * *

**CHAPTER 1**  
**Young Teacher**

Arthur Kirkland stared weakly at the class list in his hands. There he was, his name written in twelve-point, Times New Roman font: Jones, Alfred F.

Birthday: 4 July.

Age: 16.

Year: Junior.

The list hadn't actually specified any of those things, but it didn't have to. Arthur Kirkland knew these facts by heart. The list comprised only the students' names, all in a neat, inky column on bleached printer paper. Alfred's name was snuggled somewhere near the head of the roll below an "Anderson," a "Calhoun," a "Davies," and a "Honda".

Anderson, Calhoun, Davies, Honda, _Alfred F. Jones._

Why did most of the names in the class have to start so late in the alphabet? Why was Alfred's name only fifth from the top? Why did all the other words on the page turn into a grey blur as Arthur gazed transfixed on the twelve letters and one punctuation mark that were sure, _sure_, to unravel him? Arthur tore his eyes away from the paper as he gently folded it into thirds and placed it on the dark wood of his sturdy desk. But the paper wouldn't stay shut. The top and bottom sections swung out slowly like church doors as the line of names displayed itself again to Arthur's disobedient gaze. A slight crease formed between Arthur's thick eyebrows. The teacher bent over the arm of his black office chair and pulled a nearby desk drawer open. He lifted the offending document with two fingers and dropped it onto a stack of fat, plastic binders. After shutting the drawer deliberately and locking it like a jail cell, Arthur snatched one of the pens from the industrial pen cup (he kept an identical one on the same corner of all of his desks) and began to chew slowly on the blunt end. Alfred wasn't a particularly troublesome student. Certainly, he was enthusiastic, having a tendency to derail lectures with his interruptions, but he seemed like a good kid. However, the problem with Alfred wasn't Alfred himself. It was Arthur.

Arthur had met Alfred on Alfred's first day at the tiny high school. Up until the moment before the bell rang, every student but one was sitting in a seat. Generally, the school was pretty lax about attendance as long its students continued to excel (the school did have an excellent reputation, after all). But Arthur, as a teacher, had the power to enforce punctuality, and, with the harsh reputation he had so lovingly constructed for himself, no student thusfar had been courageous (or stupid) enough to challenge his policy. So, the moment before the bell rang, as Arthur was deliciously preparing to mark one of the new freshmen late on his first day, Alfred had burst into the English classroom, shut the door, and leapt into the nearest vacant chair. All in about one second. The bell rang before Arthur could mark anything in his notepad (the one he had chosen because it made him look like he was writing tickets). Everyone was in their seat, and the door was shut. Arthur dropped his favorite red pen and whirled to face the intruder as a wave of nausea hit him. His knees buckled for a moment as blankets of queasiness wrapped around his body. He placed a hand on the desk behind him to steady himself.

(But perhaps nausea isn't the right word to describe the sensation.)

_Feverish:_ that's how he felt. Feverish. But it wasn't because Alfred wasn't a sickening. No. As a matter of fact, Alfred was very attractive. He had an obvious boyish charisma combined with clean, sun-kissed skin, electric blue eyes, and soft, dark blonde hair. He was well-proportioned with a lean frame inching out of its boyhood. His gentle, full lips were a raw but understated color, and his long fingers could make any pianist envious (certainly Arthur's long-lost Austrian friend from college). No, Alfred was anything but nauseating. What made Arthur sick was the sudden and wholly inexplicable sensation of _lust_ that had gripped the teacher upon seeing the boy.

Arthur had turned away from the class and placed both hands on the desk at the head of the room. The lust and nausea had ebbed, leaving the teacher with the slow creep of horror and panic.

Arthur was gay; that was a fact he had long ago come to terms with. He had even participated in a few pride parades back in London (an embarrassing memory). But he had never, _never, _wanted to feel what he had felt just then as he had looked into the eyes of that new student. Lust for a boy of fourteen. And Alfred was barely that. He had turned fourteen less than two months previous, according to the school records. Arthur steadied himself and turned back to the class, forcing himself to look anywhere but at the supple, _eager_ young body sitting by the door.

"Please pardon me," he began, a smile pinned to his face. "I was recently running a fever, but as attendance is an imperative," he halfheartedly scolded, remembering the tyrannical reputation he needed to maintain, "here I am. Now please open your readers to the introduction on page vii."

That year had been nothing short of hell for Arthur. Alfred was attentive, enthusiastic, and altogether impossible to ignore. The student had passed with flying colors, despite floundering in all his other subjects. The only one who had beaten Alfred's score in English was Alfred's friend Kiku. (How had that little Japanese boy done that, anyway? He barely spoke a lick of English.) Arthur had spoken to the other teachers about Alfred's discordant performance, and they all seemed to agree on one thing: the boy was bright but unmotivated. So why was he getting such a good grade in English? Arthur had worn circles into the floor of his apartment pondering this conundrum. Meanwhile, Alfred had managed to plant himself somewhere deep in Arthur's head. At first, Arthur had tried to push all thoughts of the student from his mind. This quickly proved impossible. After grappling for a month or so with the goliath (and possibly impossible) task of ignoring Alfred, Arthur sat himself down and tried to come up with a better solution. Denying Alfred was torture. Arthur hadn't trusted himself to even look at the boy since the beginning of the year because every time he had, sick fantasies would unfold in his eyes before he could stop himself. But there was a chance, a slight chance, that it was possible to defeat the fantasies by indulging in them. Perhaps he wouldn't be so shocked and distracted by them if he allowed his mind to wander with them. Arthur had always been a man more comfortable in imagination than reality. (Even into adulthood, he was much more comfortable with his imaginary friends.) It was one of the reasons he loved literature so much, and it explained a lot of his absentmindedness. Arthur convinced himself he could defeat this hurdle as he had every other: by indulging in a little fantasy. Thus Arthur had endured the year imagining passionate tussles with the young teen; imagining Alfred's pink lips bruised with kisses and his young skin mottled with hickeys and love bites. Once, when Alfred had entered class complaining about sore muscles, Arthur panicked, believing momentarily that his fantasies had somehow transferred into reality, and someone would pick up on Alfred's soreness. The thought, of course, was ridiculous, and, at any rate, no one had suspected Arthur of anything as far as he could tell. Arthur had kept his thoughts under lock and key and never let them interfere with his work. In class, Arthur allowed himself to be, at the very most, efficient and mildly pleasant with the boy, making sure the student understood the concepts as he would any other student that might approach his desk. The end of the school year was a godsend for the perplexed teacher. Over the summer, the fantasies of his student had petered out a bit, and by the beginning of the next school year, Arthur was confident that he had his hangup under control, that he would never give the boy a second thought.

But the school was small and with little funding, and as such, they were forced to recycle teachers. Arthur found himself teaching sophomore-level English the following year. Again with Alfred. This time, Alfred beat out his friend Kiku, earning a grade _over_ 100%. (Kiku was not amused.) But his grades in his other classes were even worse than the previous year; he had failed _art_ of all things. Alfred had also asked for Arthur to tutor him in English, but Arthur had flat-out refused, claiming he didn't have the time to privately tutor students whose grades were already stellar. Arthur had never before refused to tutor a student (no matter their grades). But he had to get away. He had to distance himself from the child that invaded his dreams and his idle thoughts. One way or another, this boy could make it so he would never teach again.

As Alfred's sophomore year went by, Arthur had found himself researching the boy, mostly to try to add a bit of believability to his dream world. He asked fellow teachers, some members of the PTSA, but not Alfred himself, of course. Alfred's parents were divorced, he learned; Alfred lived in the States with his father while his mother had moved up to Canada, taking Alfred's twin brother, Matthew, with her. Arthur couldn't have been less interested in Alfred's brother or his mother. What interested Arthur was the fact that Alfred's father seemed to be mostly absent. Perhaps Alfred sought a father figure, having little in the way of parental authority in his life? Perhaps the reason Alfred excelled so well in English was that he finally had someone like Arthur to respect (who _commanded_ respect) in his life? These possibilities intrigued Arthur, but what truly sparked Arthur's interest about Alfred's father was that he left on purported "business trips" for weeks at a time. Arthur added this to his mental file on Alfred: the idea that he could ravish Alfred over and over in Alfred's own home without anyone finding out. It also seemed that Alfred didn't have many friends despite his friendliness and talent in sports. The school counselor, who occasionally met with Alfred, said that Alfred could be pushy and overbearing to his classmates. ("Why do you ask, Arthur?" "I want my students to succeed, of course.") Alfred, she said, was insensitive, nosy, and even a bit conceited. Arthur had noticed this, but he couldn't fathom why it might throw people off. But he could admit to being annoyed by the boy on numerous occasions. Arthur dug a bit deeper. He found that Alfred was extremely independent and quite rebellious, something Arthur _hadn't_ noticed. Alfred, in class, had always behaved respectfully and subserviently to Arthur. But his other teachers sang a different tune, citing examples of open rebellion. He had once whipped up the whole grade into a frenzy and inspired his classmates to ditch Government one day. But this little tidbit about Alfred only made Arthur want to capture him more. Dream-Alfred became feisty, and Dream-Arthur had to bind and gag him on more than one occasion.

The summer of that year was also a godsend, and the two months it allotted the teacher were barely enough time to catch his breath and clear his mind, if just a little, of Alfred. His desire for Alfred had only grown with the fantasies, and exponentially at that. Arthur was distraught to learn that he was to teach English level three the upcoming year, but knowing the class was split between two teachers, he could only pray that Alfred would end up in the other teacher's class.

No such luck.

Arthur continued to chew at his pen, saliva seeping into the dents and cracks he had carved with his molars. He tried to keep his wandering mind from Alfred's cocky grin and the attentive blue eyes always fixed on his teacher. The boy had turned sixteen over the summer. Arthur was thirty. At their first meeting, Alfred had been fourteen and Arthur twenty eight. Exactly half his age. If that wouldn't violate the sacred "half-_plus-seven_" rule, he didn't know what would. But, Arthur reminded himself, he couldn't think in 'would's and 'might's. He had to think in 'should's and 'can't's. No matter how Alfred might react to his touches, his kisses and his ministrations, he couldn't. It was wrong. It was dead wrong. Arthur pulled the battered pen from his mouth and frowned. He unlocked the top drawer of his desk and pulled out his handkerchief. After cleaning and wiping the pen thoroughly, he dropped the pen back into the metallic cup and went to place the handkerchief back in the drawer. He paused as he saw that the class list on top of the well-organized heap had opened itself again and was splaying Alfred's full name proudly at the frozen teacher.

"¡Chau, colega!" wandered a cheerful voice from the other side of the room.

Arthur snapped out of his reverie and glared at the dark-haired figure ambling towards his cubicle. "I wasn't expecting anyone to be here today besides the secretary," Arthur smirked as he eyed the Spaniard. "But I guess no one expects the Spanish Inquisition."

The tan man slowed slightly, green eyes now fully open.

Arthur's grin widened. "And why, may I ask, was your greeting Italian-inspired?"

"Maybe I like Italian, pirata," quipped the Spanish teacher softly.

"If you like it so much, then why don't you teach it?" Arthur teased.

The man clapped his hands together as he brightened at the idea. "I could! These American students don't see the value of Castellano; all they want is _Mexican _Spanish."

"And you refuse to teach it."

"Claro que no."

Arthur shrugged. "Well, stick with what you know. The school board threw a tantrum when they discovered I was teaching British spelling to the students, but they backed down in the end. And my students don't complain. Much. At least I don't require Received Pronunciation."

The other teacher chuckled. "The heart can only be so hard, Arturo."

Arthur frowned at the name. "Yes, well, I'm surprised _your_ heart hasn't melted into a gooey puddle yet, _Anthony._"

His colleague scratched his head. "I simply translated your name because 'Arturo' sounds more daring than 'Arthur'."

Arthur's frown darkened. "I'll have you know Arthur is an excellent name, a very British one at that, tied to the history of a brave and noble king, and it happens to be a name that fits me very well. So I'd prefer it if you'd keep to 'Arthur'."

"Okay, but remember to call me 'Antonio'."

"You started it, bumpkin."

Antonio shrugged with a blank smile and wandered into his own cubicle next to Arthur's.

Arthur had turned to his computer (blasted device) when he heard Antonio call cheerfully over the short, portable wall.

"I would like to know: am I sitting _in_ this chair or _on_ this chair right now?"

"You're sitting _in_ the chair," growled Arthur. Knowing he wasn't going to get much work done with the bubbly Spaniard making odd noises in the cubicle over, Arthur arched his back in his seat and stretched like a two-legged cat. Swiveling in his office chair, Arthur's leg bumped into the open drawer. The list was still there, perched atop the neat binders like the bow on a Christmas package. After a moment of hesitation, Arthur reached for the sheet of paper and held it up to his face, almost daring it to remind him of his fate. Alfred's name was still there, sandwiched between "Honda, Kiku" and "Jorgesen, Rhoda".

"I see your pet is in your class again."

The Englishman yelped and dropped the list into his lap. He glared back at the Spaniard now laughing over his shoulder as Arthur picked the list up again and pressed it to his chest.

"You didn't see me walk in?"

"No, you tomato-loving buffoon; I didn't!" Arthur refolded the list and resmoothed it. Then slow realization dawned on him. He straightened slowly and deliberately to stare down his fellow teacher. "My what?"

"Your what?" echoed Antonio.

"You said my 'pet' was in my class again," Arthur began carefully. "Why did you say that?"

Antonio's face betrayed confusion. "That Alfred child…isn't that what you call it when a student does well and acts very nicely towards a teacher?" he offered hesitantly. "A teacher's pet?"

Arthur indulged in a long sigh (secretly one of relief). "A teacher's pet acts that way to _every _teacher, Tony. Alfred isn't a teacher's pet."

"Ah, but that is why I said he was _your_ pet, inglés," Antonio replied merrily.

Arthur paled.

"He gained an okay mark when I taught him, but I think he has a personal issue with Diego," continued Antonio, his eyes focused on a distant point. He glanced back at Arthur. "That reminds me. You heard that we could not find a third Spanish teacher this year?"

"Er, no, actually." Arthur drummed his fingers softly on the cherry desk. "Will you be teaching five classes, or have we increased class size, then?"

"We increased class size, sadly."

"Mm."

"I suppose this will be tough for Alfred because he was put into Diego's class again."

Arthur clicked his tongue once against his teeth. "If that's the case, I predict now that he'll be retaking Spanish II _again_ next year. He has to pass it to graduate. Unless Elizabeta could be persuaded to waive that requirement."

"No. She could not be."

Arthur's short nails clicked against the wood. "We really ought to get a real counselor. I've said this before, but she's not qualified for that position, and she already has a job here."

"You know we have no room for more staff," Antonio sighed. "Only for a part-time Spanish teacher. But if you insist on hiring someone new, who do you suppose we fire?" he laughed.

"_You_."

Antonio laughed harder. "But if they fire me, your pet would never graduate!" he mock-gasped.

Arthur shot him an ugly look. But the Spaniard (oblivious as usual) hadn't registered the glare and wandered aimlessly back to his cubicle. "Chau!" he repeated, now out of sight. And Arthur had failed, until Antonio was chatting happily with the secretary, to notice that that damning list had not left his hands the whole time. He gave it a pleading look, as if it could see his miseries and change to suit him better. But the list, indifferent to the suffering of any one man, did not change, not even when Arthur shoved it protectively into his jacket pocket and marched out of the school, too distracted to remember even to close his drawers.

* * *

_Please forgive me for my Spanish; I learned Mexican/Latin American Spanish, so it might seem a little off. And he talks a little weird because English ain't his first language. Forgive me and him, 'kay?_

_This school is based on my school (but obviously not the teachers). But we did have one really creeper teacher…and a janitor that was always high. Maybe I'll make Netherlands the janitor. And I did have a Spanish teacher who, for the life of her, could never understand the difference between "in" and "on"._

_Next chapter may or may not be from Alfred's POV. We'll see._


	2. The Subject of Fantasy

**CHAPTER 2  
****The Subject of Fantasy**

It was only when his fifth period class was shuffling out of the classroom that Arthur began to panic. One period left before school was over. One period in the company of Alfred F. Jones.

And speak of the Devil, there Alfred was, squeezing his way through the throng of students milling out the door.

Alfred looked winded. And class had ended about thirty seconds ago. Had he run? Arthur opened his mouth to voice the question, but hastily thought better of it. (The answer might have been "yes", after all.) Instead, Arthur took to watching Alfred with a discreet eye as the boy plunked down front and center of the classroom, in the desk closest to Arthur.

"Wanted to get the best seat in the house!" proclaimed Alfred, answering Arthur's unasked question.

"Mm," Arthur grunted, his eyes turned to the stack of papers before him, pretending to ignore the student.

As always, Alfred made that extraordinarily difficult. He was panting like a dog. Had Alfred run from the other side of _school_? His skin was flushed, coated slickly with a sheen of light sweat as he tried to make himself comfortable in the cramped desk. Alfred twisted in his seat, mewling breathily as a few vertebrae popped loudly in his back, and stretched back with a satisfied groan. Arthur grew hotter under the collar at the scene Alfred was making. Did he have to make such obscene noises?

"Just run a marathon, did you?" Arthur mumbled at the papers on his desk (though his eyes refused to focus on any of them but the slightly crumpled class list).

(He never even remembered putting it on the desk to begin with.)

Alfred perked up at the acknowledgement. "Whatcha say?"

Arthur sighed like a tortured martyr and finally looked his student head-on. He quickly noticed something.

Alfred had _changed_ over summer. He had turned sixteen. He had _grown_. Though he hadn't quite filled out all the growth out yet; his hands and feet were awkwardly large, bound to make him trip all over himself like a growing puppy. His honey-blond crop of hair was a bit more disheveled than last year, and his features, while still very pliant and round, were longer.

"I said, 'You grew over summer, didn't you?'"

Alfred grinned proudly. "Yup! I'm five foot nine now!"

Five foot nine. He was Arthur's height. They were the _same height_. Surely somewhere that made them equals. Right? Alfred was less than two years from becoming a legal adult. That made him almost 90% of the way there. Alfred was practically an adult.

A sickening sort of relief wormed into Arthur's chest. If he was still attracted to Alfred, it meant that he hadn't lusted for Alfred simply for the fact that he was a child (because he practically _wasn't_ anymore).

But, then again, Alfred still _was _a child.

_But_, he reasoned, perhaps to calm the bilious guilt, a child who was _practically _an adult.

"Practically…" Arthur repeated from his thoughts, his lips dry. Suddenly, he was keenly aware that he was leaned much farther over his desk than he had been before, unconsciously stretching closer to Alfred.

"No, I really am five foot n—KIKU!" Alfred finished excitedly.

And just as suddenly, Arthur was keenly aware of another presence in the room: a small figure that was narrowing his eyes almost imperceptibly at the scene before him. But Arthur caught the infinitesimal change in expression. The Japanese boy was incredibly perceptive, and Arthur found himself panicking.

"Good day, Mistar Kirkrand."

…How the _hell_ had that boy gotten such a good grade in English? Arthur almost laughed at the thick accent, but he remembered himself, leaning back in his seat. "Er, yes, good afternoon, Kiku," he greeted politely, straightening the loose stack of papers.

"I think Kiku grew over the summer, too," Alfred interjected, drawing the attention back to himself, "but ya can't tell 'cause he's a _midget._"

Kiku sputtered at the epithet. "I am a normar height for Japan!"

"Pssyeah," Alfred countered, "but this is _America_, and here, you're short!"

Kiku deadpanned. "Perhaps I should move back to Japan, zen."

"No, Kiku, nooo!" Alfred wailed, clawing at the air. "What would I do without yooou?"

A few of the incoming students around the door chuckled at Alfred's antics.

"You would have to pay attention in crass," Kiku answered smoothly.

"Hey!" Alfred protested. "I pay attention in class! Isn't that right, Mr. Kirkland?"

Arthur blinked as Alfred and Kiku noticed him again. "Erm…" he said intelligently.

"See? He didn't say 'no'!"

"He did not say 'yes' eezer," Kiku observed.

"Fine, Mr. Glass-is-half-empty! But the proof is in the pudding, and my pudding got a better grade than you!"

Alfred's spew of English idioms passed over Kiku's head as his dark eyes dulled in confusion, but he did register a small spark of recognition (and indignation) at the words "better grade".

"…Zat is just one crass!"

Alfred grinned. "Yeah, but it's the only class that matters!"

"What job can you get from a Engrish major?" Kiku countered.

"High school English teacher," supplied Arthur grimly.

After a blank moment to register the quip, Alfred laughed boomingly and Kiku, embarrassed over the outburst in front of his teacher, coughed politely into his fist.

"Well, chaps," Arthur said, standing deliberately and straightening the green sweater-vest under his tweed sports jacket, "the bell's about to ring, isn't it?" And with that announcement, the rest of the class scurried into their seats and pulled out their notebooks. They knew by now that Arthur was not one of those teachers who spent the first class period of the year chatting idly. And he was not one to tolerate dilly-dallying. He smirked at the instant reaction as he picked up a stack of papers from the desk and glanced at the clock with idle interest.

Alfred groaned dramatically as he pulled out his spiral-bound blue notebook. "You just have to kill all the fun, don'tcha Mr. Kirkland?" he grinned.

"I like to earn my English teacher's salary," he pronounced, his gaze lingering perhaps a bit too long on Alfred's still-pink cheeks and sparked blue eyes.

"That's what I like about you, Arthur Kirkland! You're an honest sort of fellow!" Alfred announced in a mock-British accent. The class chuckled.

Arthur rolled his eyes. "You sound like an old man. And your accent is terrible."

"Pssh, YOU sound like the old man, old man! But I think _your_ accent is _awesome._"

Arthur coughed into his fist as he tried to hide his quickly reddening face. "Yes, I've noticed Americans are impressionable that way," he muttered in retort as the bell rang and a student closed the door.

Arthur straightened the stack of papers in his hands. Syllabuses. A code of conduct for the new year. A set of rules and regulations written in stone and not to be budged. (Perhaps Arthur should write a syllabus for himself this year.)

"Nice to see you all back this year," he announced. He wasn't sure if it was a complete lie, though. Honestly, he was terrified to see Alfred back in his class, but the terror was accompanied by a low, primal satisfaction that scratched animally at his gut. That was the part of him that was _hungry _to see Alfred again. Arthur walked briskly through the rows towards the back of the room, past Alfred and the growling hunger, to hand out the syllabuses. As he handed out the last of the stack and rounded on his heel, Arthur caught the sound of excited whispers bouncing back from the front of the room. A quick sweep of his gaze registered the hunched forms of Alfred and Kiku, chatting quietly. His pace quickened (they were _asking_ for eavesdroppers), and he could soon make out the sound of Kiku's butchered English.

"…Must be carefur not to ret zis become zat kind of dangerous obsessi—" but then (plan foiled) Kiku saw him. _A dangerous obsession?_

"Wh…what are you talking about, Kiku?" Alfred whispered back shrilly. "I'm not obsessed! He's just—"

Kiku cleared his throat, and Alfred caught the hint.

'Dangerous obsession'? '_He's_ just—'? _Who's_ just? Was Alfred dangerously obsessed with someone? A '_he_'? _Who was it?_ No, Arthur couldn't get excited about it. He was in class. He had to stay in character. He hadn't eavesdropped. He hadn't heard what Alfred had said. Or Kiku. He was just a teacher who had caught two students whispering in class. That was all. (Keep playing the part, Arthur; you've made it past second intermission.)

"Something you two would like to share with the rest of us?" Arthur asked coolly.

Kiku blanched at being called out, but Alfred took it in stride. "Yeah, I was just _totally _telling Kiku that this is, like, a totally kickass syllabus!" A bubble of appreciative laughter rippled through the crowd of students.

Arthur raised a thick eyebrow. "Really now?" He played along.

"Uh huh!" Alfred chimed.

"And has two and half months of summer vacation made you forget my rule about cursing in the classroom?"

Alfred smacked his forehead in epiphany. "Oh, shit, right! It either has to be a British swear word, or it has to be a real, bona fide chanty curse. With like monks and stuff."

"So…?"

Alfred looked blank for a moment before breaking into a grin. "…So this is a really kick_arse _syllabus!"

As the resulting peals of laughter distracted Alfred (attention hog), Arthur took the chance to sneak a look at Kiku. The boy looked much relieved, and, most thankfully of all, not suspicious of Arthur in the slightest.

* * *

"I wirr be right wiss you. Prease ask za bus drivah to wait for me."

"Alright, Keeks," Alfred shrugged, waving a temporary goodbye to his friend. "But if you're too late, he ain't gonna listen to me!"

"I wirr use za metro if he reaves wissout me."

Arthur watched the goodbye with an anxious curiosity. Kiku was staying after class, which meant Kiku wanted to talk to him. There was no way that could be good. Students never wanted to talk to him about good things, and there was _certainly _no way _this_ student (that observant and mostly silent Japanese boy who was bosom buddies with the object of Arthur's illicit lust) was coming to chat with him about the weather. Arthur busied himself with his binders as Kiku approached like a plague of locusts.

"You wanted to talk to me about something, Kiku?" Arthur asked, not looking up from his busywork.

"Yes," affirmed Kiku in a business tone. Arthur didn't know what to think of it, but it didn't sit well with him. "I would rike to talk wiss you about my grade in za crass."

Arthur sighed (and Arthur's ears had never heard so many emotions released in another single sigh). Grades. Right. Kiku _wasn't_ here to talk to him about the rise in Arthur's body temperature and heart rate when he looked at Alfred. He wasn't here to accuse him of masturbating to the blond American's school pictures. He was here to talk about his English grade. A grade that didn't require improvement in the slightest. He could deal with that. He was used to over-achieving Asian students (though, he reasoned, maybe it wasn't fair to stereotype like that). Yet again, Kiku was being a little ridiculous. He earned nearly a hundred percent last year. Arthur told him as much. "Kiku, you got almost a hundred percent last year."

Kiku nodded. "But sometimes an A is not good enough. My parents arways tord me to be best in crass."

"So you're worried about your grades because Alfred scored better than you?"

"I—eto—no, I feer happy for him. It's good he has a good grade in your crass. I don't wish to discourage Arfred."

Arthur waited politely for Kiku to elaborate.

"But I sink if Arfred can do it, I can get a perfect grade."

"I see." Arthur replied with a cocked eyebrow.

"It's interesting," Kiku said quickly, cutting off his teacher (who had opened his mouth to tell the student not to kill himself over being perfect). Arthur frowned at the change in demeanor. Kiku was usually much more polite than this, and, as the Japanese boy shifted his weight slightly, Arthur could see the discomfort in his posture. "Arfred's grades in his other crasses are…not as good as your crass. It's interesteen zat he works so werr when he has a reason to. When he has motibation."

Arthur's eyebrows contracted as his heart picked up speed. "Motivation?" he repeated, an appropriately confused look on his face.

"Mm," Kiku confirmed, still shifting his weight. And it dawned on Arthur why Kiku looked so uncomfortable. Arthur had never before, in two years, heard Kiku talk about someone behind their back, either for good or bad. Kiku was just _like _that: he didn't talk about people. And now, talking about Alfred with Kiku just seemed impolite (among other things, like _terrifying_). "It may not be my prace to say it," Kiku continued with a hesitant twinge that confirmed Arthur's suspicion, "but I sink he rikes you quite a bit. It's obbious dat you are his faborite teacher."

Now Arthur's heart wasn't just picking up speed, it was having a highway chase with a cop car. And Kiku scratched at his hand. "I hab onry been in America for two years," Kiku continued, "and I stirr don't understand za curture and customs, but I sink it might be bad for Arfred if you don't discourage him a ritter bit. He may rike you too much. I sink if you don't discourage his…_affections_ it might…" he paused, and Arthur's mind was allowed to jump wildly from place to place, trying to predict Kiku's sentence before he finished it. (Supposedly, Kiku was allowed to do this to Arthur because English wasn't his first language. Arthur didn't buy it.) Kiku gave him a significant look as Arthur tried to keep a poker face. "…It might go to his head."

Arthur sat dumbly for a moment as his mind screamed for a translation from Kiku-speak to plain English.

By the time Arthur's brain had rung up the order and spat out the change and the receipt, Kiku had already made his slight (and embarrassingly involuntary) bow, said his "good day" and made his quiet exit out the door.

And that was when Arthur realized that Kiku was never worried about his English grade.

* * *

_This chapter seems kinda Kiku-centric..._

_By the way, you should look up "Don't Stand so Close to Me" on YouTube or iTunes or wherever kids get music nowadays (but not the Glee version; that one's melded with another song). It might give you a hint as to the upcoming chapters. _


	3. Quick Note

Haha, HI EVERYONE. I certainly plan to continue this, but quickly after I posted the last chapter, I had a panic attack and have sort have been having panic attacks ever since. It's been extremely hard to concentrate since then, but I plan to start working on this more when I can think straight. Sorry for sort of dropping off the face of the Earth like that, but I will be back.


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